A Matter of Course
by Ishuca
Summary: Percy comes to a realization about himself and plots the course of his life. A story about regrets. PW/OW, OW/MF SLASH


Warnings: SLASH. You don't know what it is? Then I seriously doubt that you want to be here.  
  
A/N: I am using a Japanese version of word to write this, so if punctuation sometimes flies out the window (rogue question marks, for example), I'm sorry. B/c my Word is Japanese, I'm sticking with American English- it's safer. If anyone would like to help me with my British, I would be more than obliged.  
  
Couplings: Percy/Oliver, Oliver/Marcus  
  
Spoilers: Erm. Well, sort up until the third book.  
  
Disclaimer: Nothing here is mine except for the story. Nothing. Slightly AU.

***

A Matter of Course

For a long time, Percy did it as stress relief. Settling down to bed, he would wait until Oliver's breathing had evened into long and deep gasps for air. Oliver always did breathe through his mouth when he slept. In first and second year, Percy found the habit annoying. Until sixth year it had been simply convenient. Lately, it was. . . different. Even so, Percy continued with his late night activities.

It was the same every evening, like clockwork. Night by night, Percy would wait for Oliver to fall asleep, his fingers itching at the delay. Fifteen minutes was all it ever took for Oliver to be gone, but that was still fifteen minutes too long for Percy. Fear of discovery abated, Percy would mutter a couple of spells (silencing, darkness) and begin. Body tense and trembling, Percy would loosen the drawstrings of his pajama bottoms, sometimes letting out a small sigh as his hand skittered down his thighs. Skirting near the juncture of his thighs, Percy would tickle at the stiff curls, brush his nails against his inner thighs. The soft skin there was so sensitive Percy never failed to tremble at the feeling. He was never able to tease himself for long, though. That was when he would begin pumping himself, pulling in just the ways he liked, fingers gripping _just so_.

Percy sometimes wondered what the other boys did when they jerked off. From the whispered snippets that he sometimes overheard, most everyone else seemed to think of someone while they did the deed. Phantom lovers, who knew exactly how to please and conveniently wore the faces of loved ones and crushes.

For Percy, however, there was no phantom lover, no cherished ghost. That would imply that he viewed the act as something more than an exercise in stress management. Percy did not entertain any romantic illusions about his nightly ritual: it was simply him and his hands and the feelings that they evoked. In truth, it was impossible for him to imagine himself playing pretend while he jerked off. He didn't exactly understand how everyone else did it; of course, he also didn't really understand what it was like to care for someone, _love_ someone in That Way. This, of course, did not interfere with his regard for one Miss Penelope Clearwater. Penny was. . . perfect. She was someone who Percy could talk to, who understood his ambitions, who respected him. Sometimes Percy felt like she was the only person who did. Love, yes. But passion? Penny did not make Percy hot and bothered, and he rather doubted that he inspired those feelings in her.

So Percy had no dream lover, and certainly not one with Penny's breasts and hands and lips. Penny's lips were cold and rigid, more like Percy's grandmother's lips than those of a girlfriend. The idea of letting those same lips near certain parts of Percy had a very chilling effect. Yes, he loved Penny. A great deal. But he didn't want her. He doubted that he ever would. It was just one of those things, a matter of course.

Things taken for granted, however, have a nasty habit of changing.

It happened one evening in Percy's sixth year. He was in Oliver's and his dorm room (unlike Oliver, Percy had never lamented the lack of other Gryffindors in their year) and was busy working on an Advanced Transfiguration extra credit project. He had just completed his thirteenth foot, and was contemplating how he might not actually have to scrap this draft when Oliver stumbled through the door. Percy thought that gaping was extremely undignified, but even so he almost gave into the urge.

Oliver was filthy. Not filthy in the normal 'took a tumble off my broom' sense, but more like the 'just went diving into a pile of refuse' way. Percy honestly had no idea how _anyone_ could become that dirty, even Oliver (who seemed to attract mess like it was his karmic burden).

"Oliver. What in Merlin's name happened to you?" Percy shuddered at the dirt that Oliver was tracking across the floor.

"An accident after practice." Oliver's voice came out thick as he pulled off his shirt.

"With what? Hagrid's animal pens?" Percy pursed his lips at the way Oliver was tossing his now-vile clothing onto the floor.

"Almost the same. Damn, Flint is such a bastard!"

Ah, that explained it. While both Percy and Oliver had been targets of Flint's persecution at one time or another, the Slytherin had recently zeroed in on Oliver. It had become so bad that Oliver frequently wondered whether or not someone had magically fixed a target to his back. The reek from Oliver 


End file.
